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Zsgb pansies *A- Book 

1 De mon jardin, voyageur, 
Vous me demandez une fliur ? 
Cueillez toujour s — mats je n'ai) 
Voyageur, que des pensees." 

London • Published 
byElkin •7 v \athe\5^s 
Vigo • Street -~w 

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Dora and Julian 

Three, we learned together 
At our mother's knee — 
Three, through altered weather 

The highway travel we — 
God send in Heaven's gold ether 
We stand before Him, three. 

M. P. 
November, 1894 


■^ .. , page 

Ballad i 

Lord John 4 

Virelai -•--...... y 

" Is it nothing to you ? " 9 

Love in the Lane 1 1 

Sonnet • • - • - 12 

Christmas Carol j? 

The Miracle of Mercy 16 

Ballade - - 20 

Cophetua 21 

"Ite ad Joseph" 24 

The Beloved • - - 28 

Sceur Louise de la Misericorde 31 

A Legend of St. Elizabeth 34 

In the Days of the Press-gang 36 

Uncertainties 38 

Ballade- "*"*----- 41 

Dried Lavender - - - - - . . . .^ 

A Mesalliance "*"•---• 4c 

The End of the Season 46 

Wedding Days .* 


Rondeau 48 

Rondeau 49 

Rondeau 5° 

Rondeau Redouble ....... 51 

Holy Communion for the Sick 53 

Ballade 55 

" Non vos Me elegistis, sed Ego eligi vos" - - - 57 

Double Ballade 59 

La Guillotine 61 

A Legend - - 63 


"T O, my seam is but begun, 

-L/ And my flax is but half spun. 
The red sun dippeth to the sea — 
Come not here to hinder me.'' 

" Leave thy sewing, and rise up. 
Tarry not to weep nor sup. 
Beyond sun, beyond sea, 
Maid, thou must go with me." 

" Nay, for I first must weave, 
Whiter than stars at eve, 
Robe wherein to habit me 
What day wedded I shall be." 

" More white than on the wing 
Snowflakes, a robe I bring — 
More white than the face of the dead, 
To wind thee in from feet to head." 

" A mother dear I have. 
My feet would dig her grave 
If I fared forth from her — 
Away, strange messenger ! " 

" Needs must thou leave her side 
What day they call thee bride. 
He that here sendeth me 
Willeth thy spouse to be." 

" Clad in the royal red 
And a crown on his head, 
I will be bride of none 
But a king's eldest son." 

" Crown, yea, and girdle of gold 
Are His. And, eke, behold, 
Of gold His ciiy's pavement is, 
Bordered all with fleurs de lys." 

" Why at thy tale so stir 
My heartstrings, messenger ! 
Oh ! say (if thou shouldst know) 
There doth a river flow ? " 

" Yea, beset with flowering trees 
And fields of anemones — 
River, sans storm, sans strife, 
Of the water of Life." 

" Oh ! 'tis He for wedding with Whom 
This white web doth fill my loom. 
Say quickly, of thy grace, 
Where is the meeting place ? " 

11 Maid, where the lions roar 
On the blood-deluged floor, 
And the torment waiteth thee — 
There thou must go with me." 

Lord John 

LADY Margaret was sitting her bower within, 
Thumbing her golden mandolin, — 
Lady Anne was playing at the ball, 
When the Southron lord stepped into the hall. 

Her robe was wrought with blossom fair ; 
The diamonds hid her yellow hair. 
Her robe was white, all silver-sewn ; 
Her face was like a rose new blown. 

" Oh, Lady Anne, you little white dove, 
Will you be my wife ? will you be my love? " 
" Nay, ye maun ask my father bold, 
And my mother that spins wi' a thread of gold," 

Her father gave her a saddle fine, 
All gilt, with pearls in rows of nine ; 
Her mother gave her a veil wove thin 
As mist, with grains of gold therein ; 
And her sister, Lady Margaret, 
A silver pear and pomegranate. 

Then up and spoke her brother, Lord John : 
*' Ye never sail wed yon Southron loon." 
Her brother, Lord John, that was lithe of limb, 
" Ye sail sooner dee than gang hame wi' him." 

In all the towers the bells made noise. 
Shrill sang and sweet the Altar boys. 
The stair with cloth of gold was spread ; 
The board with wines, both white and red. 
Till, when the afternoon was come, 
That lord would have his lady home. 

Her sister fetched her mantle green, 

With small flowers worked and buds between ; 

Her father led her to the door ; 

Her mother clasped her o'er and o'er ; 

Holding the stirrup, her brother lord John 

Stood by her horse and set her thereon. 

" Frae your saddle o' gowd an' pearls in a row 
Lean down and kiss me before you go." 
As she leaned her down to kiss and part, 
With his knife he smote her under the heart. 

The young footpage of the Southron lord 
Ran by their side thro' field and ford. 
" You little meek love-bird, lady Anne, 
I wis your cheeks grow white and wan. 
One mile further and half a mile 
And you shall rest you in merry Carlisle." 

" Oh, lift me softly over yon stile — 
It's aye too far to bonnie Carlisle. 
Lift me softly into yon meads — 
Your little foot boy can hold the steeds." 

" Now, God have mercy, what colour is this 

Breaks through your mantle's broideries ? " 

His knee was the pillow for her head. 

His hand with her heart's blood was red. 

And it's "What will you leave to your father bold ? " 

" My steed milk-white that's shod with gold." 

" And what to your mother dear ? " — " The girdle 

Of gold and pearls from round my middle." 

" And what to your sister Margaret sweet ? " 

'• The pearl-pricked shoon from off my feet." 

" And what to lord John that's lithe of limb ? " 

"A priest to shrive and to housel him." 

And it's " What will you leave to me, to me, 
That hold your head upon my knee ? " 
" Oh, the ring wherewith you made me wife — 
I ha' loved and I love you abune my life." 


IN the garden of the King 
Oh ! the fair birds on the wing — 
Oh ! the fair boughs full of white 
Flowers and vermeil, where they sing, 
Silver-throated sing and swing — 

The soft breezes all alight 
With the clear gold winnowing 
Of swift angel plumes, that fling 
Trail of glory left and right, 

And throb onward out of sight. 
Lift thy heart up, dolorous wight, 

In thy house of pain and care ; 
Dost complain that hidden are quite 
All the rose and chrysolite 

Of the sunsets ? Hast no share 
Longer in March meadows dight 
With tall daffodils, and flight 

Of brown birds through the blue air ? 

Long grass wind-tossed everywhere, 
Gorse bloom that the uplands bear 

Though 'tis thine no more to see, 
Lift thy heart and pray this prayer, 

" If the prison is so fair, 

Lord, what must the palace be ? " # 
All the glory, as it were, 
Of all sunsets gathereth there, 

Dolorous one, and waiteth thee. 

Just a few years, two and three, 
While all sweet things further flee, 

Canst not suffer ? Such, and more 
Sweets, in the King's garden He 
Hath beyond measure. To the knee 

Blow white tulips round the door, 
Crocus and anemone ; 
And the fruits on every tree 

Burn translucent to the core. 

All of fine sward is the floor, 
Thick with lilies starred o'er ; 

There the whole year round 'tis Spring 
Not in any year of yore 
Hast thou met the like before ! 

So, they to the King shall bring 
Thee, and His fair hands shall pour 
Into thine of joys such store 

As shall pass all fathoming. 

* Saint Augustine. 

Is it nothing to you ? " 

WE were playing on the green together, 
My sweetheart and I — 
Oh ! so heedless in the gay June weather, 

When the word went forth that we must die. 
Oh ! so merrily the balls of amber 

And of ivory tossed we to the sky, 
While the word went forth in the King's chamber 
That we both must die. 

Oh ! so idly, straying through the pleasaunce, 

Plucked we here and there 
Fruit and bud, while in the royal presence 

The King's son was casting from his hair 
Glory of the wreathen gold that crowned it, 

And ungirdling all his garment fair, 
Flinging by the jewelled clasp that bound it, 

With his feet made bare. 

Down the myrtled stairway of the palace, 

Ashes on his head, 
Came he, through the rose and citron alleys, 

In rough sark of sackcloth habited, 

And a hempen halter — oh ! we jested 
Lightly, and we laughed as he was led 

To the torture, while the bloom we breasted 
Where the grapes grew red. 

Oh ! so sweet the birds, when he was dying, 

Piped to her and me — 
Is no room this glad June day for sighing — 

He is dead, and she and I go free ! 
When the sun shall set on all our pleasure 

We will mourn him — What, so you decree 
We are heartless — Nay, but in what measure 

Do you more than we ? 


Love in the Lane 

"TT is nothing," we said, "though we have to 
J- wait — 

We are young — we are both of us young." 
My love was a lad leaning over the gate — 

(All that song has been sung.) 
He whistled such tunes as he walked by the cart, 

The gayest of any I know — 
That was a long time ago, sweetheart ; 

Ah, what a long time ago ! 

The gladness of hearing the waggon wheels creak, 
The horses plod over the hill, 

The sound of the bells every day of the week — 
(Hark! are they tinkling still ?) 

" It is nothing," we said, " though we have to part- 
It will all come again, we know." 

That was a long time ago, sweetheart ; 
A long time, a long time ago. 

The hedges were flowering against the red sky — 

Linnets sang loud in the tree — 
He plucked me three roses, and bade me good-bye — ■ 

(The roses are withered, all three.) 
Is it death, is it life, that has kept us apart ? 

Shall I know ? shall I ever know ? 
It is all such a long time ago, sweetheart ; 

Ages and ages ago. 



WISH not withdrawn or changed thy bitter 
chalice — 
Think'st thou the bride would rend or fling away 
The sorry garment dim of hodden grey 
That clad her when, in the rain, through thegorse- 

grown valleys 
Tending the herd she fared, and forth from his 
One rode, and loved her in her mean array, 
And wedded, and took her home to holiday 
Thenceforth among his peach and jasmine alleys? 
Who knoweth ? perchance had robbed thee of thy 
Joy of this life, hadst thou been whole and 
Thy pain, as it were, hath prisoned thee apart, 
That thy Beloved might say, "All Mine thou art" — 
Ah ! since therein He chose thee, as treasure rate, 
As thy betrothal robe, thy stricken estate. 


Christmas Carol 

LACKING samite and sable, 
Lacking silver and gold, 
The Prince Jesus in the poor stable 
Slept, and was three hours old. 

As doves by the fair water, 

Mary, not touched of sin, 
Sat by Him, — the King's daughter, 

All glorious within. 

A lily without one stain, a 

Star where no spot hath room — 

Ave, gratia plena — 
Virgo Virginum. 

Clad not in pearl-sewn vesture, 

Clad not in cramoisie, 
She hath hushed, she hath cradled to rest, her 

God the first time on her knee. 


Where is one to adore Him? 

The ox hath dumbly confessed, 
With the ass, meek kneeling before Him, 

" Et homo f actus est.'" 

Not throned on ivory or cedar, 

Not crowned with a Queen's crown, 

At her breast it is Mary shall feed her 
Maker, from Heaven come down. 

The trees in Paradise blossom 
Sudden, and its bells chime — 

She giveth Him, held to her bosom, 
Her immaculate milk the first time. 

The night with wings of angels 

Was alight, and its snow-packed ways 

Sweet made (say the Evangels) 
With the noise of their virelays. 

Qnem vidisiis, pastor es ? 

Why go ye feet unshod ? 
Wot ye within yon door is 

Mary, the Mother of God ? 

No smoke of spice is ascending 
There — no roses are piled — 

But, choicer than all balms blending, 
There Mary hath kissed her Child. 


" Dilectus mens mihi 

Et ego Illi " — Cold 
Small cheek against her cheek, He 

Sleepeth three hours old. 


The Miracle of Mercy 

A Fact 

"TV /TIDNIGHT hath struck from all the clocks. 

1V1 Who is it cries on my name and knocks ? " 
" Rouse thee, Father John Marie. 

Oh ! make haste and ride with me." 

" Who needeth me in the heart of the night ?" 
" One that must die before daylight. 
Fetch quickly, Father John Marie, 
The holy oils, and ride with me." 

" A lad was I, and my locks nut-brown, 
When last from saddle I vaulted down. 
I will follow thee fast, tho' my hair be white, 
But my feet shall carry me best this night." 

" Now, nay, for the sturdiest could not stride 
The length of the road that we must ride. 
Mount ! mount ! lest clocks strike two, strike three, 
And a soul be damned for lack of thee." 


Bundle of hay on the barn's bare floor, 
Blood that trickled under the door, 
Blood on the gold of the broidered coat, 
Ghastly, gaping wound in the throat. 

" Oh ! for the love of God, a priest ! " 
" Where shall we find one, west or east ? 
In this heretic land we may seek all day, 
The nearest is shires and shires away." 

" Oh ! bring a priest, for Jesus' sake. 
Years it is since I knelt to make 
My confession, and was forgiven. 
Oh ! for God's sake, get me shriven." 

Gasping, shuddering, ever to him 
Dimmer the lights grew, and more dim ; 
Sharpened ever his ashy cheek ; 
And still his dry lips strove to speak. 

Clatter of hoofs through the dark that rang, 
And stopped at mid-gallop — two that sprang 
Breathless each from a reeking steed, 
With hair blown wild in their headlong speed. 

" Father ! Father ! dreaming am I ? 
Or com'st thou truly to help me die? " 
" Yea, my son, annealed and shriven, 
To send thee in Christ's arms to Heaven." 


" While the low sun looks through the orchard 

Brother Martin, what readest thou?" 
" Of a holy priest in the north countrie, 
In hiding, Father John Marie," 

" Wherefore in hiding ? " " For that he 
At the cock-crowing, Father John Marie, 
Assoiled and anointed one that lay 
In his life's last throes on a heap of hay. 

" Blood (it saith) from a gash in his throat 
Gruesome ran o'er his gold- laced coat, 
And out 'neath the door— What aileth thee ? 
So pale thou'rt, Father John Marie." 

" Whence, Brother Martin, came the priest? " 
" Nay, none can hear it, and west and east 
They have searched, to slay him, and found him not, 
For the good God hideth him well, I wot." 

11 His name, Brother Martin, read to me." 
" 'Tis written not, Father John Marie. 
Dost think belike 'tis a friend ? Now, nay. 
Who knoweth ? 'tis shires and shires away. 

" One there was that rode by his side 

Thither and thence, to serve as guide, — 

One seen never of any before 

(It saith) and that since hath been seen no more." 


Musing, marvelling, ever went he 

In wonder, Father John Marie. 

Oh ! by whom that night was he bidden 

To ride ? And, oh ! what road had they ridden ? 

The length of the realm, as now he saw, 

In less than an hour — And with trembling awe, 

" Benedictus," would whisper he, 

" Qui venit in nomine Domini." 

19 c — 2 


(April 27TH, 1882) 

THE thrushes were singing between the showers, 
Between the showers of an April day ; 
And they said, " There is noise in the tall old towers 
Of marriage bells and of roundelay. 
Oh, the world," each sang to his mate, " looks gay, 
When it seems a garden that holds but two ! 

Green be the garden as meads in May, 
And God give His sunshine all the year through ! 

" From the leaf and the blossom of other bowers 

Came a Princess through the salt sea-spray ; 
But now she is ours ! " they sang, " she is ours ! 

She has come with the Spring, she has come to 

Soft blow the winds in her path at play ! 
Never be cloud on her reach of blue ! 

Fair be the fields where her feet shall stray, 
And God give His sunshine all the year through ! " 

Other thrushes and other flowers 

Shall she miss from the Springs of the Future ? 


Not if the welcome of these first hours 
Half the wish of our heart can say — 
Not if the tribute our tongue can pay 

Be half as loud as the homage is true — 
Oh, blest be the garden as Eden clay, 

And God give His sunshine all the year through ! 


Prince ! be sure of the hearts that pray, 
While Summer is breaking for her and for you ; 

Blossom make lovely each step of your way, 
And God give His sunshine all the year through ! 


THE land and the sea were grey, 
Steeped in a silver mist. 
Why did he come this way 

And woo me or ever I wist ? 
Oh ! what shall I do next 

In the fair, windless weather ? 
Heart of mine in its joy perplexed 
With Yea and with Nay together. 

My father, mending his net, 

Saith, " Marry thee, child of mine." 
The eyes of my mother are wet, 

Where she sitteth to milk the kine. 
My little sisters stare — 

They cry, " Thou wilt play with us never — 
In thy shining robe, with the pearls in thy hair, 

Thou wilt play not again for ever. 

il The sarks and the sheets fine spun, 
Rinsed white as a white dove's wings, 

Thou wilt hang no more in the sun 
With thy hands all diamond rings," 


Oh, yea ! or, oh, nay ! shall I say 
In the strange, silent weather ? 

Would he had held on his seaward way — 
But, lo, we have met together. 

2 3 

" Ite ad Joseph " 

A Legend 

BETWEEN the soul and the Blessed Land 
St. Peter stood, with the Keys in his hand — 

" Thou hast lived in sin, and hast died in sin, 
And thou mayest not enter the Gate within." 

But the poor soul cried only, " St. Joseph, attend ! " 
Cried ever, " St. Joseph ! my father, my friend — 

" They say I have sinned — and it well may be — 
But was not I always devout to thee ? 

" Did ever my feet through a church-door go 
But before thine image I louted low ? 

" Chapel of thine have I ever sought 
But I lighted candle, or roses brought ? 

" Have not I cleaved to thee, sick and well? 
And wilt thou permit me to fall into Hell ? " 


Faithful father, St. Joseph came— 
But ever St. Peter spake the same — 

" He has died in sin, and sin that was great, 
And how shall he enter within the Gate ? " 

To the Angel Choir, whose wings seemed dipped 
In sunset glory, and glory-tipped, 

St. Joseph ran, and on to the Choir, 
With wings like a harvest field on fire — 

The First fair Order hushed, when they heard, 
Their citherns, and hushed them the Second and 
the Third, 

Till, each after each, had gone Orders eight, 
And the Ninth Order last of all, down to the Gate, 

And left not aught they could say unsaid ; 
But ever St. Peter shook his head. 

Through golden street upon golden street 
Went St. Joseph with hurrying feet, 

Till one by one, and by twos and threes, 
The Saints came down 'neath the blossoming 
trees, — 

Saint after Saint down the lilied stair, 
Till all the Blessed in Heaven were there. 


But ever his head St. Peter shook, 
And ever his way St. Joseph took 

Past the meadows, where never a soul 
Remained, nor an Angel played cithole, 

Farther yet through the Blessed Land, 

To one that was seated at Christ's Right Hand. 

In her pearly vesture, and mantle spun 

As from dew-bright rays of the morning sun, 

More fair than the twelve white stars in her crown, 
The Mother of God to the Gate came down. 

The Angels, at sight of her, struck the strings, 
Till the sound ran to meet her, like rushing of wings 

All of silver. St. Peter, that held the Keys, 
Unmitred before her and went on his knees. 

Ringed round her the Saints, like an aureole clear, 
But " yea" from St. Peter none could hear. 

Then, ever in haste, St. Joseph ran 

To Him who, when scarce he measured a span, 

Had lain in St. Joseph's arms and smiled, 
And clung to his neck, a two years' Child, 

With the strange buried flowers, as it were, shining 

Shining large, thro' His Hands, thro' His Side, 

thro' His Feet, 


In a mist of glory and golden state 
Mary's Son went down to the Gate — 

And God Almighty looked from His Throne, 
And saw He was left in Heaven alone. 

At His Will returning, a soft, white flame 
Dividing the silence, a Seraph came, 

And told how all Heaven, from south and from 

At St. Joseph's prayer had in turn gone forth — 

And, for sake of St. Joseph, were gathered a great 
Multitude beautiful down at the Gate. 

Spoke God our Lord — and His Smile was kind — 
" Go say that St. Peter must change his mind. 

Without court, without singers, am I to stay 
Till what time St. Joseph has got his way ? 

If St. Joseph's prayers are to empty Heaven, 
Go say that his client must be forgiven." 


The Beloved 

WHEN the storm was in the sky, 
And the west was black with showers, 
My Beloved came by 

With His Hands full of flowers — 
Red burning flowers, 
Like flame that pulsed and throbbed — 

And beyond in the rain-smitten bowers 
The turtle-dove sobbed. 

(Sweet in the rough weather 

The voice of the turtle-dove — 
" Beautiful altogether 

Is my Love. 

His Hands are open spread for love 
And full of jacinth stones — 

As the apple-tree among trees of the grove 
Is He among the sons." 

The voice of the turtle-dove 

Sweet in the wild weather — 
" Until the daybreak dwells my Love 

Among the hills of Bether. 


Among the lilied lawns of Bether, 
As a young hart untired — 

Chosen out of thousands, — altogether 
To be desired.") 

When the night was in the sky, 

And heavily went the hours, 
My Beloved drew nigh 

With His Hands full of flowers — 

Burning red flowers 
Like cups of scented wine — 

And He said, " They are all ours, 
Thine and Mine. 

" I gathered them from the bitter Tree — r 

Why dost thou start ? 
I gathered the Five of them for thee, 

Child of My Heart. 

These are they that have wrung my Heart, 
And with fiercest pangs have moved Me — 

I gathered them-why dost thou shrink apart? 
In the house of them that loved Me." 

(Sweet through the rain-swept blast 

The moan of the turtle-dove — 
" You that see Him go past 

Tell Him I languish with love. 

Thou hast wounded my heart, O my Love ! 
With but one look of Thine eyes, 

While yet the boughs are naked above 
And winter is in the skies.") 


{t Honey-laden flowers 

For the children nursed on the knee, 
Who sow not bramble among their bowers — 

But what " He said " for thee ? 

Not joys of June for thee, 
Not lily, no, nor rose — 

For thee the blossom of the bitter Tree, 
More sweet than ought that blows." 

(The voice of the turtle-dove — 

" How shall my heart be fed 
With pleasant apples of love, 

When the winter time has fled. 

The rain and the winter fled, 
How all His gifts shall grace me, 

When His Left Hand is under my head, 
And His Right Hand doth embrace me.") 


Soeur Louise de la Misericord e 

(Louise de la Valliere) 

SCOURGE, and cilice, and feet unshod, 
And Office, and fast, and the love of God. 

The grille, and the cell, and the sweet Vows three, 
And the holy habit — for me ! for me ! 

For me, who at first in the state of grace, 
Blushed when the great sin looked in my face — 

Who housed desire of it unconfessed 

In the bosom that once received God for its Guest — 

Who, with peril and guilt of it all to me known, 
Drank of it, laved in it, made it mine own. 

Oh ! God of mine, nailed up on the Rood, 

Why hast Thou waited ? oh ! Kind — oh ! Good — 

God of my heart, on the bitter Tree 
Waiting, when I would not hear of Thee. 


My sin loaded the scourge that tore 
To pieces the Body that Mary bore — 

My sin launched the blows and disgrace 

To change and to mar all Thy beautiful Face — 

And I, when for ever from pain Thou didst part, 
Clove to Its Centre Thy dear dead Heart — 

My All ! my Jesus ! still can it be, 
Thy Heart and the holy habit — for me ? 

Through the sorrows of Mary Thy Mother, who 

With the sword in her soul beneath the Rood, 

Through the added sorrow her grief brought Thee 
Assoil Thou those that have sinned through me. . . 

Chimes ! . . . and another to-morrow near — 
And after to-morrow year on year. . . . 

Lord, for such as I used to be 

I have given my body to grief and Thee, 

To broken sleep, and girdle of iron, 

And scourgings to blood, and the flags to lie on — 

Wait, wait but for them as for me Thou didst wait, 
Who came unwilling, and came so late — 

Oh ! Kind — oh ! Gentle — I chose not Thee — • 
My Jesus, why hast Thou chosen me ? 


Chimes . . . and the long night going its way 
Till the next chime bringeth another day — 

Penance, and fast, and the feet unshod, 
And a living death, and the love of God. 


A Legend of St. Elizabeth 

ON her rough cloak fall her tears 
Diamond wise. '■ Father, my fears 
Bid me next unfold," she saith, 
The sweet Saint Elizabeth. 

" In God's name, Amen," the Friar 
Maketh answer. Fringed with brier, 
Under alders and grey sky, 
Grey the river runneth by. 

Weeping, " What and if," saith she, 
" God should little care for me ? 
Through my faults kept from Him far, 
Dole and doubts my portion are." 

" Tell me," the Friar saith to her, 

The Franciscan, Rodinger, 

" Dost thou love Him ? " " Yea," she saith, 

" With my whole heart, to the death." 


11 Then, give credence," saith he. " More 
Easy much it were that o'er 
The grey water thou shouldst see 
Come to us yon alder tree, 

" Than that the Lord God should have 
For the creature whom he gave 
Being to, breath and life and limb, 
Less love than it hath for Him." 

Streaks of sunset fire 'gin show, 
Broken in the flood's grey flow. 
From the further bank, behold, 
The alder over the wan gold 

Of the wavering river tide 
Crosseth to the hither side, 
And itself in the new sod 
Planteth. Ever blessed be God. 

35 D— 2 

In the Days of the Press-gang 


(Rhythme d' Alain Chartier) 

TO the fair, the rest 
Gone with quip and jest, 
Did you, ready dressed 
In your Sunday best, 

Wait me long, my dear ? 

Sun dipped down the west — 
Rose died in your breast — 
Putting by, distressed, 
Hood in the oak chest, 

Did you drop a tear ? 

No sound did you hear 
Of a scuffle near ? 
From the moonlit pier 
See no boat load steer, 
Poor Jack Tar just pressed? 


Long year after year 
I must wait and fear — 
Will your heart not veer ? 
Will it with brave cheer 
Stand, my dear, such test ? 



PINK linen bonnet, 
Pink cotton gown, 
Roses printed on it, 
Hands burnt brown. 
Oh ! blithe were all the piping birds and the golden- 
belted bees, 
And blithe sang she on the doorstep, with her apron 
full of peas. 

Sound of scythe and mowing, 

Where buttercups grew tall ; 
Sound of red kine lowing, 
And early milkmaid's call. 
Sweet she sang on the doorstep, with the young peas 

in her lap, 
And he came whistling up the lane, with the ribbons 
in his cap. 

"You called me a bad penny 
That wouldn't be sent away — 

But here's goodbye to you. Jenny, 
For many and many a day. 


There's talk of cannon and killing — 

Nay, never turn so white ! 
And I've taken the king's shilling — 
I took it last night." 
Oh ! merry, merry piped the thrushes up in the 

cherry tree, 
But dumb she sat on the doorstep, and out through 
the gate went he. 

Scent of hay and summer ; 

Red evening sky ; 
Noise of fife and drummer ; 
Men marching by. 
The hay will be carried presently, and the cherries 

gathered all, 
And the corn stand yellow in the shocks, and the 
leaves begin to fall. 

Perhaps some evening after, 

With no more song of thrush, 
The lads will cease their laughter, 

And the maids their chatter hush ; 
And word of blood and battle 

Will mix with the sound of the flail, 
And lowing of the cattle, 

And clink of the milking pail ; 
And one will read half fearful 

A list of names aloud ; 
And a few will stagger tearful 

Out of the little crowd ; 
And she, perhaps, half doubting, 

Half knowing why she came, 


Will stand among them, pouting, 
And hear, perhaps, his name — 
Will weep, perhaps, a little, as she wanders up the 

And wish one summer morning were all to do again. 




THERE was a tree where the lilies grew tall 
In the happy Garden, and carried freight 
So fair that it seemed like a festival 

When the apple of Death Eve plucked and ate. 
- And Tree there was on a hill desolate, 
Gibbet-planted, without the wall 

Of the city, and under in sword-stricken state 
Mary, consenting to save us all. 

" As gods shall ye be," said the Angel, whose fall 

Had dragged half Heaven through the Beautiful 
And Adam made haste at her shrill, sweet call 

When the apple of Death Eve plucked and ate. 

And an Angel it was who was bidden to wait 
For Yea or for Nay in the chamber small, 

When spoke without doubt and without debate 
Mary, consenting to save us all. 

Like lamps 'mid the leaves hung the gold-fruit ball 
And the red, where the birds whistled each to its 


On high, doves built as in flower-domed hall 
When the apple of Death Eve plucked and ate. 
But for Him lifted up, while the Wounds grew 
more great 

That held Him, the savour of myrrh and gall, 
And for crown of His sorrow to contemplate 

Mary, consenting to save us all. 


Jesus ! to rescue us scheming straight 

When the apple of Death Eve plucked and ate, 

Thou wouldst have by the Rood as erst in the Stall 

Mary, consenting to save us all. 


Dried Lavender 

OH, the sweet dried lavender ! 
Oh, the more than scent in it ! 

The butterflies and bees astir, 

The pipe of linnets pent in it ! 

Brick and smoke and mire have fled — 

Time and space between drop dead — 
Oh, the sweet dried lavender ! 
I can hear the pigeons whirr — 
I can count the quarters chiming — 
I can watch the ivy climbing — 
Clinging close from eave to basement, 
Clasping, shadowing all the casement. 

Within, against the raftered wall, 

The oaken press stands black and tall — - 
I see its folded linen store 
Gleam athwart its open door — 
I smell the lavender fresh-dried 
Strewing all the shelves inside. 

Unmade is yet your shroud, mother — 
Not yet you are in heaven — 

You count the sheets aloud, mother, 
And smooth and lay them even. 


Your jingling keys, with music low, 

Measure your steppings to and fro. 

And, sorting, piling, still you croon 

Some soft, half-uttered cradle tune. 
Oh, the sweet dried lavender ! 
I hear the wise old tabby purr, 
Curled on the window-sill asleep, 
Where winter sunlights slant and creep. 

I hear, without, familiar babel 
Of turkeys at the barn-door, 

I, perched upon the kitchen table 
In socks and pinafore. 

My head is all a golden mop ; 

Upon my cheek the round tears drop ; 

The frosty morning weather nips 

My nose and toes and finger tips. 

Mother, so quick you leave your sheets ! 
The shelf of sugars and of sweets 
So well you rifle for my meal, 
Almond and fig and candied peel ! 

You chafe my little palms, mother — 
You kiss away their cold — 

You take me in your arms, mother — 
And I am five years old. 


A Mesalliance 


IS she mine, — and for life, — 
And drinks tea from her saucer ! 
She eats with her knife — 
Is she mine — and for life ? 
When I asked her to wife 

All her answer was " Lor', sir ! " 
Is she mine ? and for life? 

And drinks tea from her saucer ! 


The End of the Season 


WHEN Di was seventeen, 
And I her one lover, 
She'd have listened, I ween. 
When Di was seventeen 
She — Oh, fool that Fve been ! 

Now the time's past and over 
When Di was seventeen 
And I her one lover. 




BROCADE pearl grey in place of white, 
Gold hair all silver, Rosalie, 
Fifty years hence — yet more to me 
Than even, my one year's wife, to-night 
Rocking thy first-born in my sight. 

How seems the picture unto thee, 
Brocade pearl grey in place of white, 
Gold hair all silver, Rosalie ? 

My helpmeet still, my same delight, 
Fifty years hence (if God agree) 
With this son's grandson on thy knee, 
As this day year full fitly dight, 
Brocade pearl grey in place of white, 
Gold hair all silver, Rosalie. 



"TN violet and primrose time 
-L The Via Crucis must ye climb ? " — 
" Yea, for the month that sows the lea " 
(They said) " with blossom, saw the Tree 

Whose Flowers were Five, Rose-red, Sublime. 

" The Mater Dolorosa rhyme 
Is our Spring song ; while, through each clime, 
Mourn Priests, mourn Altars, as ye see, 
In violet. 

"But wot ye of our Feast, when chime" 
(They said) " the Paschal bells ? From crime 
New shriven, when Christ's fair Body we 
Receive, and wish our hearts might be 
His house thenceforth from Prime till Prime 



"T^vO as ye list," the Serpent said, 
U Where Eden trees flowered rose and red ; 

And fair Eve trembling plucked and ate. 

Ah ! the rough briers without the gate. 
Ah ! the white feet ere dusk that bled. 

To His beloved He, whose sharp bed 
Was the tall Rood, this hard, sweet, dread 
Word giveth, " Ye shall not early or late 
Do as ye list." 

Oh ! perfect souls, on penance fed, 

Into God's golden town being led 

At last, in all things small and great, 
Through endless years of aureoled state 

Ye shall, secure and comforted, 
Do as ye list. 



HAIL, full of grace, thy dolours done. 
Like silver lamps thy throne before 
Fade shall thy lilies nevermore. 
Never again shall anyone 
For thirty pence thy crowned Son 

Sell, and to scourge and bloody floor 

On Him again, while thy tears run, 

No bleak wind through a stable door 

Shall blow. None yet on Heaven's still shore 

Saw ever frost, none snowfall, none 


Rondeau Redouble 

THE dream thou'rt dreaming— tell it very low, 
Sweet lad, among the reeds and the tall grass 
lying ; 
Doth it rush to meet thee, or do its wings beat 
slow ? 
Would thy heart break (dost think) if it dropped 
dying ? 

Is't of a casement where grey doves sit sighing ? 

Or of long, fair lawns, with lilies and a fountain's 
And one through trellised alleys lightly hieing, 

The dream thou'rt dreaming ? Tell it very low. 

One with a face like a flower ? Ah, no ! ah, no ! 

Thou seest, within thy dream, an old monk tying 
Rose-bunches for the altar — Is't not so, 

Sweet lad, among the reeds and the tall grass 
lying ? 

51 E— 2 

Barefooted, never questioning, never replying, 

Silent for life, thou seest them come and go — 
Oh ! most dear dream — worth with thy heart's 
blood buying — 
Doth it rush to meet thee, or do its wings beat 
slow ? 

Oh ! dream beloved — at noon, nightfall, cock-crow 

To find those pale, rope-girdled Fathers trying 
Its spirit — in a year and a day it must bud and 
blow — 
Would thy heart break (dost think) if it dropped 
dying ? 

A year and a day, and no more any denying 

Thy right each eve one spadeful more to throw 
Out of thy half-dug grave, nor the satisfying 

Thy thirst for penance — fond lad ! yea, well I 

The dream thou'rt dreaming. 


Holy Communion for the Sick 

EVEN to me, whose heart, like a cold rock, 
Hath steeled herself so long against Thy 
knock — 
Wilt come to me, fair Christ, in the white Host, 
Even as Thou dost to those that love Thee most ? 

To me, who find no word wherewith to greet 
The entering of Thy swift and lovely Feet — 
No word, though Thou should'st lift and lay to rest 
This poor, dull head Thyself upon Thy Breast. 

Crowned King, my little stairway hung should be 
With cloth of gold powdered with pearls for Thee, 
And with white samite, where thick sewn should lie 
Thousands of diamonds for Thy passing by. 

Lord, when they left Thee in the sepulchre 
Was scent of finest balms, of spice and myrrh, 
And round its door the flowers of the young Spring 
Lent all their perfume for Thy burying. 


But in my heart no sweet flowers shalt Thou see, 
No box of spikenard — dost Thou come to me ? 
To me, more cold than the cold stable place 
Where first Thy Mother looked upon Thy Face. 

There, sooth, no blossom budded round Thy bed — 
No jewelled thurible her odours shed — 
But, than choice honey sweeter, and more fair 
Than a king's garden, Mary's heart was there. 

Oh, Victim, helpless borne here in the Host, 
I will entreat Thy Mother with that most 
Pure heart of love to make amends to Thee 
For all thou lackest whilst thou art with me. 



For a Sewing Party 

NEEDLES nimbly plying and thread, 
Wives and busy maids, behold 
The Ladye Mary, about whose head 

Clung unseen the aureole's gold, 

Spinning fold on small fair fold, 
Wherein, helpless little One 

Sans all comfort save her kiss, 
She should cherish her sweet Son — 
(Pray ye) " Bless our work begun, 

Mater Admirabilis." 

Maids and mothers, see her shed 

Tears, like pearls of price untold, 

Over the white wool that red 

Should be, when the great drops rolled 
Shuddering to the garden mould. 

Seamless garment — hast thou spun 
Length of it and breadth for this, 

To stand by and watch it won 

With rude dice, redeemed by none, 
Mater Admirabilis ? 


Ever, 'neath her gentle tread 

(Sweetly she the while growing old) 
Hums her loom, whence spring and spread 

Stores of raiment, amply doled 

To all poor folk in the cold. 
From her loom what broideries run, 

For the altar woven, I wis, 
Fair beyond comparison. 
(Pray ye) " Bless our work that's done, 

Mater Admirabilis." 


Queen ! y-clad as with the sun, 

Thy meek toil our pattern is. 
" Give us grace all sloth to shun," 
(Pray ye) " and thy benison, 
Mater Admirabilis." 


"Non vos Me elegistis, sed Ego 
eligi vos" 

WHICH was thy blessed day? Was it when 
the trees 
Foamed with fair blossom on a sunset sky, 
And the birds piped, and homeward strayed the 
And thy heart joyed because her June was nigh ? 
Because lover's eyes thine eyes uplifted met ? 

Nay, but the day when, in winter, by the grey sea, 
The Voice spoke stabbing thy soul, "Thine own 

And come, follow Me." 

Not when the cithern music clamoured sweet 
Through the myrtles, and the barges rocked at 
the river stair — ■ 

Not when they led thee, roses beneath thy feet, 
In gold bud- broidered robe, with pearl-bound hair — 


But when, beyond sound of the oars' sun-dazzling 
Far, far beyond reach of the flutes and the jas- 
mine alleys, 
A Hand pierced through held to thy shuddering lips 
The bitter chalice. 

Not, not the day when torch and trumpet blare 
Girdled thy landing, and wine did the fountains 
pour — 
Nor the day when swords for sake of thee flashed 
Shalt thou confess as "blessed" the Judge 
before — 
But the day, from feast and clash of bells witheld 

Of them in marriage given and them that marry, 
When Christ all wounds went by, and thee com- 

His cross to carry. 


Double Ballade 

" HPHAT Winter was years ago 

A When we saved each stick and shred 
For fuel," you say ? No, no ! 
Else why am I still unwed ? 
The feast is ready to spread. 
Though none but women remain, 

There'll be wine and wheaten bread 
When Rene comes home again. 

While the trumpets blared So-ho ! 

They rode where the Emperor led. 
And women must reap and sow 

In men's and in striplings' stead — 

Must plough, or none could be fed, 
Through the black east winds and rain — 

Oh, sweet the loom and the thread 
When Rene comes home again ! 

'Twill be Spring, the trees will blow, 

The rose at the gate bud red, 
As red as the lint rags grow 

Where a sabre thrust has bled. 


Somebody's lover is dead . . . 
For I heard them speak it plain . . . 

The tale will go out of my head 
When Rene comes home again. 

How say you ? " my feet are slow ?" 

Yea, frozen ; as heavy as lead. 
" White hair ? " — oh ! that is the snow 

Through this unthatched milking-shed. 

God knows we are sore bested ! 
Courage — 'tis I shall be fain 

In white bride-gear habited 
When Rene comes home again. 

See the robe laid here — Fair show ! 

With herbs from a June that's fled 
Thro' its folds cast to and fro', 

And with fine lace garlanded . . . 

Somebody's lover, with dread 
Changed face, lies stark 'mid the slain . 

To be left i' the snow for bed, 
When Rene comes home again. 

They'll come as we saw them go 

(The colours in rags, I've read,) 
When loud bells clamoured and low, 

And trumpeters trumpeted. 

Proud rents, where bullets have sped ! 
'Tis I shall hear in the lane 

First sound of the charger's tread 
When Rene comes home again. 


La Guillotine 


ERE the knife came down that smote and slew 
You sang 'mid the rose-trees, Desiree, 
" Notre Dame qui pleurez, priez pour nous." 

Married were we while the roses blew, 

And the land was sweet with scent of the hay, 
Ere the knife came down that smote and slew. 

The fair French land ! —and summer, and you 

Lilting by lawn and by fountains' play, 
" Notre Dame qui pleurez, priez pour nous." 

. . . Ah ! whom did they bind, while fiercer grew 

The seething mob in the tumbril's way 
Ere the knife came down that smote and slew ? 

White dove ! white Desiree ! I rushed through 

The crowd at the scaffold, — heard you say 
" Notre Dame qui pleurez, priez pour nous — " 


A minute, while one more breath you drew, 
Your face like a rose 'mid the sawdust lay 
Ere the knife came down . . that smote . 

and slew. 
Notre Dame qui pleurez, priez pour nous ! 


A Leeend 


THE setting sun an aureole made 
About her hair. With eyes that strayed 
Not from the book — " Lord God," she prayed, 

And ended not — for in the door 
Her women beckoned — " Lady, sore 
In need three pilgrims alms implore." 

And she fared forth those three to greet, 

And set before them wine and meat, 

And bathed and kissed their way-worn feet, 

In honour of three that, angel-told, 
Took their long journey — one growing old — 
One weeping she could not warmer fold 
Her little Babe that wept for cold. 

Dying was the sunset fire and flare 

When at length she, climbing again the stair, 

Returned untroubled to her prayer. 


" Lord God," began she — and from the hall 
Came sudden shrilling clamour and call 
Of her young children playing at ball, 

With wrath of two, and tears of one, 

And in the door her eldest son, 

Breathless and beckoning, urged her, " Run, 

" Sweet mother of mine ! for sturdy blow 

My brothers each on each bestow, 

And stint not " Then, with no least show 

Or of reluctance or annoy, 

In honour of one whose dear employ 

Was to tend God, a little Boy — 

Whom God called Mother and served with joy, 

Descending, she, with gentlest word, 
Sweetly through all the outcry heard, 
Chid softly two and kissed the third, 

And hushed and healed their strife perplexed, 
And up and down played with them next, 
And to her prayer returned unvexed. 

Red glory of the west was gone — 

The first star white in the lattice shone — 

" Lord God," she prayed — and on the stone 

Rang steps, and she was 'ware, before 
The next word, of her husband in the door, 
And blood that trickled to the floor. 


u My half-tamed falcon," said he, " missed 
The prey I tossed, and, ere I wist, 
'Twixt rage and sport she rent my wrist- 
Wilt balsam bring to cure the smart ? 
None virtue hath as thine, dear heart." 
Unfretted she set her book apart, 

In honour of him, whom Mary Maid 
And Mother and Queen herself obeyed, 
At bidding of whom she went or stayed, 
Nor murmured once nor once delayed. 

Washed she and bound his hurt with care, 
Nor time did count, nor labour spare, 
And yet again turned back to her prayer. 

Dusk was the lattice — and behold ! 
On the page the Collect still untold 
Stood written in letters of pure gold. 


List of Books 


Belles Lettres 


London ; Elkin Mathews, Vigo Street, W. 

i8 95 

Telegraphic Address — 

' Elegantia, London. : 

List of Books 



(Including some Transfers) 

Elkin Mathews 


IV. B — The Authors and Publisher reserve the right of reprinting 
any book in this lis!, except in cases %vhere a stipulation has been made 
to the contrary, and of printing a separate edition of any of the books for 
America. In the case of limited Editions, the numbers mentioned do 
not include the copies sent for review, nor t/wse supplied to the public 

The follcnving are a few of the Authors represented in this Catalogue : 

R. D. Blackmore. 


Buss Carman. 
E. R. Chapman. 
Ernest Dowson. 
Michael Field. 
T Gordon Hake. 
Arthur Hallam. 
Katharine Hinkson. 
Herbert P. Horne. 
Richard Hovey. 
Leigh Hunt. 

Selwyn Image. 
Lionel Johnson. 
Charles Lamb. 
P. B. Marston. 
May Probyn 
F. York Powell. 
J. A. Svmonds. 
John Todhunter. 
Henry Van Dyke. 
Frederick VVedmore. 
P. H. Wicksteed. 
W. B. Yeats. 

The Publications of Ellcin Mathews 


Travels in a Tree-Top. 200 copies. Sm. 8vo. $s. net. 

** Dr. Abbott p'eases by the interest he takes in the subject which he treats . . 
and he adorns his matter with a good English style . . . Altogether, with its 
dainty printing, it would be a charming book to read in the open air on a bright 
summer's day — Athenaum. 

" He has an observant eye, a warm sympathy, and a pen that enables us to see 
with him. Nothing could be more resiful than to read the thoughts of such naiure- 
lovers. Thevery titlesof his chapters suggest quiet and gentle things." — Dublin Herald. 

The Birds About Us 73 Engravings. Second Edition. 
Thick cr. 8vo. 5^. 6d. net. 


Lyric Poems, with title page by Selwyn Image. Sq. 
l6mo. 5-f. net. 

"This little volume of Lyric Poems displays a grace of fancy, a spontaneity 
and individuality of inspiration, and a felicitous command ol metre and diction, which 
lift ihe writer above the average of the minor singers of our time. . . We may 

expect much from the writer of 'An April Day,' or of the strong concluding lines on 
the preseni age lrom a piece entitled ' Present and Future.' " — Times. 

" The product of a definite and sympathetic personality." — Glebe. 


Fringilla : or. Some Tales in Verse. By the Author 
of "Lorna Doone." With Illustrations by Louis 
Fairfax-Muckley and James W. R. Linton. 
Crown 8vo. Js. 6d. net. 

(Quorsum haec ? Non potui qualem Philomela querelam ; sed 
fringilla velut pipitabunda, vagur.) 


A Lost God : a Poem in Three Books. With illustrations 
by H. J. Ford. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 
500 copies. 8vo. \_Very few remain. 

Also 50 copies, royal 8vo., L. P. \"]s. 6d. net. 

"Mr. Elkin Mathews sends in a beautiful form a really striking Poem, ' A Lost 
"Jod," by Mr. F. W. Bourdillon .... written in blank verse of much beauty 

ind force Three full-page illustrations by Mr. H. J. Ford, curiously 

.ke old copper- plates, add further charm to the book. Deliciously idyllic is the 
■icture of Hero and Leander, situ 'g in colloquy on the grass-browed rocks above the 
oman 5ea, and ' The Calvary,' is as dark and strong as the other is gracious and 

olossoming. ' LoGROLLER, in Star. 

" A graceful presentation in blank verse, with slight but effective dramatic setting, 

of the legend of the death of Pan on the morning that Christ began his teaching. ' — 


The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

[Isham Facsimile Reprint ] 

No Whippinge, nor Trippringe, but a kinde 
friendly Snippinge London, 1601. A Facsimile 
Reprint, with the original Borders to every page, with 
a Bibliographical I^ote by Charles Edmonds. 200 
copies, printed on hand- made paper at the CHISWICK 
Press. i2mo. 2 s - 6d. net. 

Also 50 copies Large Paper. 55. net. 

Facsimile r< piint from the semi-unique copy discovered in the autumn of 1867 by 
Mr. Charles Edmonds in a disused lumber room at Lamport Hall. Northanis (Sir 
Charles E Isham's), and purchased lately by the British Museum auihoritirs. When 
Dr. A. B. (.ross.irt collected Bieton's Woiks a few years ago for his "Chettsey 
Worthies Library " he was ft iced to conless that certain of Breton's most coveted 
books were missing and absolutely unavailable. The semi-unique example under 
notice was one of these. 


Songs from Vagabuni ia. With Decorations by Tom 
B. Meteyard. Fcap. 8vo. $s. net. 

" The Authors of the small joint volume called ' Songs from Vagabondia,' have 
an unmistakable right to the name of poet. These little snatches have the spirit of a 
gipsy Omar Khay\anii They have always careless verve, and often caiekss felicity ; 
they are masculine and rough, as r ving shou d be. . . Here, certainly, 

is the peel's soul. . You have t.e whole spirit of the book in such an unfor- 

geiable little lyric a- ' In the House of ldiedaily.' . . . We refer the reader to 
the delightful little volume itself, which comes as a welcome interlude amidst the 
highly wrought intro.-pective poetry of the day ' FRANCIS THOMPSON, in Merry 

" Dliss Carman is the author of a delight'ul volume 01 verse, ' Low Tide oa 
Grand Pie,' and Richard Hovey is the fo.emost of the living poets of America, with 
the exception, pei haps, of Bret Halle and Joaquim Miller, whose names are more 
familiar He sounds a d. eper note than either of these, and deals with loftier 
themes. — Dublin Express. 

" Delightful, indeed, is such singing as this, and it must be a stubborn nature 
that can refuse to yield to the charm of Mama. '- Ntw Tori Sun. 

" Plenty of spa kle, plenty of freshness, and a full measure of wholesome 
vigour.' — R. H. bToPDARD, in New York Mail and Exprtss. 


A Little Child's Wreath : A Sonnet Sequence. With 

title page and cover designed by Selwyn Image. 

Second Edition. Sq. 161110.. green buckram, y. 

" Contains many tender and pathetic passages, and some really exquisite and 

subtle touches of childhood nature. . . . The average excellence of the sonnets 

is undoubted." — Spectator. 

" 111 these forty pages of poetry ... we have a contribution inspired by 
grief for the loss of a child of seven, which is not unworthy to take its place even 

Vigo Street, London, W. 


beside ' In Memoriam.' . . Miss Chapman has ventured upon sacred ground, 

but she has come off safely, with the inspiration of a divine sympathy in her sou], and 
with lips touched with the live coal from the altar on which glows the flame of 
immortal love "— W. T. STEAD, in The Review of Reviews. 

" Full of a very solemn and beautiful but never exaggerated sentiment.''— 
LOGROLLER, in Star. 

"While they are brimming with tenderness and tears, they are marked with tha 
skilled workmanship of the real po> t." — Glasgow Hernia. 

" Evidently describes very real and intense sorrow. Its strains of tender sym- 
pathy will appeal specially to those whose hearts have been wrung by the loss ot a 
young child, and the verses are toucning in their simplicity " — Morning Post. 

" Re-assures us on its first page by its sanity and its simple tenderness." — Bookman. 


The Sanctity of Confession: A Romance. 2nd edi- 
tion. Printed by Clowes & Son. 250 copies. Cr. 8vo. 
y. net [ Very few re?nain. 

" Mr. Stephen Coleridge's sixteenth-century romance is well and pleasantly 
written. The style is throughout in keeping with the story ; and we should imagine 
that tie historical probabilities are we.l observed." — Pall Mall Gaxette. 

Mr. GLADbTONE writes ;— "T have read the singularly well told story. . . . 
It opens up questions both deep and dark ; it cannot be right to accept in religion 
or anything else a secret which destroys the life of an innocent fellow creature." 


The Elizabethan Hamlet : A Study of the Sources, 
and of Shakspere's Environment, to show that the Mad 
Scenes had a Comic Aspect now Ignored. With a 
Prefatory Note by F. York Powell, Professor of 
Modern History at the University of Oxford. Small 
4to. 35 6d. net. 

"Mr. Elkin Mathews will this spring publish another addition to Shakespearean 
literature under the title ' The Elizabethan ' Hamlet.' ' The author is Mr. John 
Corbin, of Balliol College, Oxford, and the volume will have an introductory note by 
Professor York Powell. The book is a study of the sources of ' Hamlet,' and of 
Shakespeare's environment, with the object of showing that the mad scenes in the 
play had a comic aspect now ignored. Mr. Coibin's general standpoint is that 
Shakespeare naturally wrote the drama for Elizabethan audiences. They in their 
time saw jest in what would seem to us only the severest tragedy. What he wishes 
to get at is the comedy in 'Hamlet' according to the Elizabethan point of view." 


The Ancient Crosses of Dartmoor; with a Descrip- 
tion of their Surroundings. With 1 1 plates. 8vo. cloth. \_Very few remain. 

The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

DAV1ES {R. R.). 

Some Account of the Old Church at Chelsea and 
of its Monuments. [In preparation. 


Under the Hawthorn, and Other Verses. With 
Frontispiece by Walter Crane. Printed at the 
Rugby Press. 300 copies. Cr. 8vo. 55. net. 
Also 30 copies on Japanese vellum. l$s. net. 

" Melodious in metre, graceful in fancy, and not without spontaneity of inspira- 
tion." — Times. 

" Very tender and melodious is much of Mrs. De Gruchy's verse. Rare imaginative 
power marks the dramatic monologue ' In the Prison Van.' " — Speaker. 

" Distinguished bv the attractive qualities of grace and refinement, and a purity 
©f style that is as refreshing as a limpid stream in the heat of a summer's noon. . . . 
The charm of these poems lies in their naturalness, which is indeed an admirable 
quality in song.'' — Saturday Review. 


Poemes sans Rimes. Imprime a Londres aux Presses de 
Chiswick, d'apres les dessins de Herbert P. Horne. 
25 copies for sale. Square cr. 8vo. 8s. 6d. net. 


See Horne. 


Dilemmas : Stories and Studies in Sentiment. (A Case of 
Conscience. — The Diary of a Successful Man. — An 
Orchestral Violin. — The Statute of Limitations. — 
Souvenirs of an Egoist). Crown 8vo. $s. 6d. net. 

[In rapid preparation. 

Poems {Diversi Colores Series). With a title design by 
H. P. Horne. Printed at the Chiswick Press, on 
hand-made paper. i6mo. 5.5. net. [Shortly. 

" Mr. Dowson's contributions to the two series of the Rhymer's Book were 
subtle and exquisite poems. He has a touch of Elizabethan distinction. . . , 
Mr. Powson's stories are very remarkable in quality." — Boston Literary IVorld. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 


Sight and Song (Poems on Pictures). Printed by 
Constables. 400 copies. i2mo. $s. net. 

[ Very few remain. 

"This is a fascinating little volume; one that will give to many readers a 
new inteiest in the examples of pictorial art with which it deals. Certainly, in the 
del'ghc in the beauty of the human form, and of the fail shows of earth, and sea, 
>nd sky which it manifests, and in the harmonious verbal expression which this 
delight has found, the book is one of the most Keats-like things that has beea 
produced since Keats himself took his seat among the immortals.'' — Academy. 

"The verses have a s< ber grace and harmony, and the truth and poetic delicacy 
of the work is only realised on a close comparison wi'h the picture itself It is 
soothing and pleasant to participate in such leisurely degustation and enjoyment, such 
insistent penetration, for these poems are far removed from mere description, and the 
renderings, though somewhat lacking in the sense of humour, show both courage and 
poetical imagination.'' — Westminster Review. 

Stephania : a Trialogue in Three Acts. Frontis- 
piece, colophon, and ornament for binding designed 
by Selwyn Image. Printed by Folkard & Son. 
250 copies (200 for sale). Pott 4to. 6s. net. 

[ Very few remain. 

"We have true drama in 'Stephania.' .... Stephania, Otho, and 

Sylvester II., trie three persons of the play, are more than mere names 

Besides great effort, commendable effort, there is real greatness in this play; and the 
blank verse is often sinewy and strong with thought and passion." — Steaker. 

"' Stephania' is striking in design and powerful in execution. It is a highly 
dramatic 'trialogue' between the Emperor Otho III., his tutor Gerbert, and Stephania, 
the widow of the murdered Roman Consul, Crescentius. The poem contains much 
fine work, and is picturesque and of poetical accent. . . ." — fVeitminuer Review. 

A Question of Memory : a Play in Four Acts. 
100 copies only. 8vo. \_Very few i-emain. 


Essays upon Matthew Arnold (Diversi Colores Series). 
Printed at the Chiswick Press on hand-made paper. 
Cr. 8vo. 55. net. [Shortly. 

HAKE (DR. T. GORDON, "The Parable Poet.") 

Madeline, and other Poems. Crown 8vo. 5^. net. 

Transferred to the present Publisher. 

"The ministry of the angel Daphne to her erring human sister is frequently 
related in strains of pure and elevated tenderness. Nor does the poet who can show 
so much delicacy fail in strength. The description of Madeline as she passes in 
trance to her vengeance is full of vivid pictures and charged with tragic feeling. . . 

The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

HAKE (DR. T. GORDON)— continued. 

The individuality of the writer lies in his deep sympathy with whatever affects the 
being and condition 01 man. . . . Taken as a whole, the book has high and 
unusual claims." — Athenerum. 

" I have been reading 'Madeline' again For sheer originality, both of conception 
and of treatment, I consider that it stands alone." — Mr. Theodore Watts. 

Parables and Tales. (Mother and Child. — The Crip 
pie.— The Blind Boy.— Old Morality. —Old Souls.— 
The Lily oi the Valley. — The Deadly Nightshade. — 
The Poet). With 9 illustrations by Arthur Hughes. 
Crown 8vo. y. 6d. net. 

Transferred to the present Publisher. 

"The qualities of Dr. Gordon Hake's work were from the first fully admitted 
and warmly praised by one of the greatest of contemporary poets, who was also a 
critic of exceptional acuteness — Rossetti. Indeed, the only two review articles which 
Rossetti ever wrote were wiitten on two of Dr. Hake's bouks: 'Madeline,' which he 
reviewed in the Academy in 1S71, and ' Parables and Tales,' which he reviewed in 
the Fortnightly in 1873. Many eminent critics have expressed a decided preference 
for ' Parables and Tales ' to Dr Hake's other works, and it had the advantage ot being 
enriched with the admirable illustrations of Arthur Hughes." Saturday Review, 
January, 1895. 

" The piece called ' Old Souls ' is probably secure of a distinct place in the liter- 
ature of our day, and we believe the same may be predicted of other poems in the 
little collection just issued. . . . Should Dr. Hake's more restricted, but lovely 
and sincere contributions to the poetry of real life not find the immediate response 
they deserve, he may at least remember that others also have failed 10 meet at once 
with full justice and recognition. But we will hope for good encouragement to his 
present and future work; and can at least ensure the lover of poetry that in these 
simple pages he shall find not seldom a humanity limpid and pellucid — the well-spring 
of a true heart, with which his tears must mingle as with their own element. 

"Dr. Hake has been fortunate in the beautiful drawings which Mr. Arthur 
Hughes has contributed to his little volume. No poet could have a more congenial 
yoke-fellow than this gifted and imaginative artist."- D. G. ROSSETTI, in the 
Fortnightly. 1 87 J. 


The Poems of Arthur Henry Hallam, together with 
his Essay "On Some of the Characteristics of 
Modern Poetry, and on the Lyrical Poems of 
Alfred Tennyson," reprinted from the Englishman's 
Magazine, 183 1, edited, with an introduction, by 
Richard le Gallienne. 550 copies (500 for sale). 
Small 8vo. 5.C net. 
Also 50 copies L.P., \2.s. 6d. net. 

Many of these Poems are of great Tennysonian interest, 
having been addressed to Alfred, Charles, and Emily 

Vigo Street, London, W. 


The Ballad of Hadji, and Other Poems. With 

etched frontispiece by William .Strang. Printed 

at the Chiswick Press. 550 copies. i2mo. 3*. net. 

Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 

" Here is a dainty volume of clear, sparkling verse. The thought is sparkling, 

and the lines limpid and lightly flowing." — Scotsman. 

"There are some pretty things in this little book." — Spectator. 
"An unusual amount of genuine poetry is to be found in the Ballad of Hadji. 
The opening piece is a really fine ballad with great power, and pathos so intense as 
to be almost painful." — Graphic. 

" Mr Ian Hamilton's Ballad of Hadji is undeniably clever." — Pall Mall Gaxette. 
" The ' Ballad of Hadji' is very good, and, were it only for that, the book is 
well worth buying. It possesses, however, yet another strong attraction in the shape 
of many fantastically beautiful head and tail pieces trom the pen of Mr J. B. Clark, 
which are scattered throughout the volume with excellent decorative effect." — 


Revolted Woman : Past, Present, and to Come. 
Printed by Strangeways. Illustrated with numerous 
original drawings and facsimiles by the Author. 
Crown 8vo. $s. net. 

"Mr. Harper, like a modern John Knox, denounces the monstrous rrgiment of 
women, making the ' New Woman ' the text of a discourse that bristles with historical 
instances and present day portraits." — Saturday Review. 

" The illustrations are distinctly clever.'' — Publishers' Circular. 


Out of Egypt : Stories from the Threshold of the East. 
Cover design by Gleeson White. Crown 8vo. 
35. 6d. net. 

" This is a strong book." — Academy. 

" This isa remarkable book. Egyptian life has seldom been portrayed from the 
inside. . . . The author's knowledge of Arabic, his sympathy with the religion 
of Islam, above all his entire freedom from Western prejudice, have enabled him to 
learn more of what modern Egvpt really is than the average Englishman could 
possibly acquire in a lifetime at Cairo or Port Said." — African Review. 

" A lively and picturesque style. . . . undoubted talent." — Manchester 

" But seldom that the first production of an author is so mature and so finished in 
style as this. . . . The sketches are veritable spoils of the Egyptians— gems of 
prose in a setting of clear air, sharp outlines, and wondrous skies. — Morning header. 

"This book places its author amongst those writers from whom lasting work of 
high aim is to be expected.' — The Star. 

"The tale . . . is treated with daring directness. . . An impressive and 
pathetic close to a story told throughout with arresting strength and simplicity." — 
Daily News. 

10 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

HEMINGWAY {PERCY)— continued. 

The Happy Wanderer (Poems). With title design by 
Charles I. ffoulkes. Printed at the Chiswick Press, 
on hand-made paper. Sq. l6mo. $s. net. [Immediately. 


Verse Tales, Lyrics and Translations. Printed at 
the Arnold Press. 300 copies. Imp. i6mo. 5.?. net. 

[Very few remain. 

'Miss Hickey's 'Verse Tales, Lyrics, and Translations' almost invariably 
reach a high level of finish and completeness. The book is a string of little rounded 
pearls. — Athenaum. 


Dublin Verses. By Members of Trinity College. 
Selected and Edited by II. A. Hinkson, late Scholar 
of Trinity College, Dublin. Pott 4to. 55. net. 

Includes contributions by the following : — Aubrey de Vere, 
Sir Stephen de Vere, Oscar Wilde, J. K. Ingram, A. P. Graves, 
J. Todhunter, W. E. H. Lecky, T. W. Rolleston, Edward 
Dowden, G. A. Greene, Savage-Armstrong, Douglas Hyde, 
R. Y. Tyrrell, G. N. Plunkett, W. Macknish Dixon, William 
Wilkins, George Wilkins, and Edwin Hamilton. 


Sloes on the Blackthorn : a Volume of Irish 
Stories. Crown 8vo., 35. 6d. net. [In preparation. 

Louise de la Valliere, and other Poems. Small 
cr. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. [ Very few remain, 

Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 
"Sweet, pure, and high poetry." — Truth. 

" Very seldom is it our good fortune to close a volume of poems with such an 
almost unalloyed sense of pleasure and gratitude to the author.'' — Graphic. 


An Illustrated Art Miscellany. Edited by Herbert 
P. Horne. The Fourth Number of the New Series 
will shortly appear, after which Mr. Mathews will 
publish all the numbers in a volume, price £1. is, net. 

Vigo Street, London, W. u 


Diversi Colores : Poems. Vignette, &c, designed by 
the Author. Printed at the Chiswick Press. 250 
copies. i6mo. $s. net. 

Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 

" In these few poems Mr. Home has set before a tasteless age, and an extravagant 
age, examples of poetry which, without fear or hesitation, we consider to be of true 
and pure beauty." — Anti-Jacobin. 

" With all his fondness for sixteenth century styles and themes, Mr. Home is yet 
sufficiently individual in his thought and manner. Much of his sentiment is quite 
latter-day in tone and rendering ; he is a child of his time." — Globe. 

"Mr. Home's work is almost always carefully felicitous and may be compared 
with beautiful filagree work in verse. He is fully, peihaps too fully, conscious of the 
value of restraint, and is certainly in need of no more culture in the handling of verse 
—of such verse as alone he cares to work in. He has already the merits of a finished 
artist — or, at ail events, of an artist who is capable of the utmost finish." — Pall 
Mall Gaxetts. 

The Series of Books begun in "Diversi Colores" by 
Mr. Herbert P. Horne, will continue to be pub- 
lished by Mr. Elkin Mathews. 

The intention of the series is to give, in a collected and 
sometimes revised form, Poems and Essays by various 
writers, whose names have hitherto been chiefly asso- 
ciated with the Hobby Horse. The series will be edited 
by Mr. Herbert P. Horne, and will contain : 

No. II. Poems and Carols. By Selwyn Image. 

[Just published. 
No. III. Essays upon Matthew Arnold. By Ar- 
thur Galton. 

No. IV. Poems. By Ernest Dow son. 

No. V. The Letters and Papers of Adam Le- 

Each volume will contain a new title-page and ornaments 
designed by the Editor ; and the volumes of verse will be 
uniform with "Diversi Colores." 


Poems. [Shortly. 


Sonnets and Poems. With a frontispiece. [Shortly. 

12 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

See Hake. 


A Volume of Essays now collected for the first time. 
Edited with a critical Introduction by Johnson 
Montagu. [/« the press. 


Poems and Carols. (Diversi Co/ores Series. — New 
Volume). Title design by H. P. Horne. Printed 
on hand-made paper at the Chiswick Press. i6mo. 
$s. net. \_J us t ready. 

" Among the artists who have turned poets will shortly have to be reckoned Mr. 
Selwyn Image. A volume of poems from his pen will be published by Mr. Elkin 
Mathews before long. Those who are acquainted with Mr. Selwyn Image's work 
will expect to find a real and deep poetic charm in this book." — Daily Chronicle. 

" No one else could have done it {i.e., written ' Poems and Carols ') in just this 
way, and the artist himselt could have done it in no other way.' 1 "A remarkable 
impress of personality, and (his personality of singular larity and interest. Every 
piece is perfectly composed ; the ' mental cartooning,' to use Rossetti's phrase, has 
been adequately done . . . an air of grave and homely order . . . a union of 
quaint and subtly simple homeliness, with a somewhat abstract severity. ... It 
is a new thing, the revelation of a new poet. . . . Here is a book which may be 
trusted to outlive most contemporary literature." — Saturday Review. 

" An intensely personal expression of a personality of singular charm, gravity, 
fancifulness, and interest; work which is alone among contemporary verse alike in 
regard to substaice and to form . . . comes with more true novelty than any 
book of verte published in England for some years." — Athenaum. 

" Some men seem to avoid fame as sedulously as the majority seek it. Mr. Selwyn 
Image is one of these. He has achieved a charming fame by his very shyness and 
mystery. His very name has a look or having been deigned by the Century Guild, 
and it was certainly first published in The Century Guild Hobby Horse." — The Realm. 

"In the liny little volume of verse, 'Poems and Carols,' by Selwyn Image, 
we discern a note of spontaneous inspiration, a delicate and gracelul fancy, and 
considerable, but unequal, skill of versification. The Carols are skilful reproductions 
of that rather archaic form of composition, devotional in tone and felicitous in 
sentiment. Love and nature are the principal themes of the Poems. It is difficult 
not to be hackneyed in the treatment of such themes, but Mr. Image successfully 
overcomes the difficulty." — The Times. 

" The Catholic movement in literature, a strong reality to-day in England as in 
France, if working within narrow limits, has its newest interpretation in Mr. Selwyn 
Image's 'Poems and Carols.' Of course the book is charming to look at and to 
handle, since it is his. The Chiswick Press and Mr. Mathews have helped him to 
realize his design."— The Sketch. 

See Breton and Southwell. 
*** New Elizabethan Literature at the British Museum, see 
The Times, 31 August, 1894, also Notes and Queries, Sept., 1894. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 13 

JACOB I (C. T.). 

On the Making and Issuing of Books. With Nu- 
merous Ornaments. Fcap. 8vo. 2s. 6d. net. \_All sold. 

Some Notes on Books and Printing : a Guide for 
Authors and Others. 8vo. 55. net, 

[By the Author of The Art of Thomas Hardy], 


Poems. With a title design by H. P. Horne. Printed 
at the Chiswick Press, on hand-made paper. Sq. 
post 8vo. $s. net. 

Also, 25 special copies at 155. net. 

Boston : Copeland and Day. 

"Mr. Elkin Mathews announces some books of interest. One is a volume of 
poems by Mr. Lionel Johnson, who has the making of a great critic. One can 
always pick out his reviews in a London daily bv their sanity, clear sight, and high- 
mindedness, as well as by the learning which unobtrusively runs like a golden thread 
through them. His poems have the same lofty quality, and stand out in a time when 
the minor muse amongst us is sick and morbid." — Boston Literary World. 


In the Fire, and other Fancies. With frontispiece 
by Walter Crane. Imperial i6mo. 35. 6d. net. 


Beauty and the Beast. With an Introduction by 
Andrew Lang. 8 beautiful line engravings after tkt 
original plates. Royal 161110. 35. 6d. net. 

See Lamb. 

Fcap. 8vo. 35. 6d. net. 


Religio Athlete. [In preparation. 

14 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

M ARSON {REV. C. L.). 

A Volume of Short Stories. \_In preparation. 


A Last Harvest : Lyrics and Sonnets from the 
Book of Love. Edited, with Biographical Sketch, 
by Louise Chandler Moulton. 500 copies. Printed 
by Miller & Son. Post 8vo. $s. net. 

[ Very few remain. 
Also 50 copies on hand-made L.P. 105. 6d. net. 

[ Very few remain. 

"Among the sonnets with which the volume concludes, there are some fine 
examples of a form of verse in which all competent authorities allow that MarstoR 
excelled 'The Bieadih and Beauty of the spacious Night,' 'To All in Haven,' 
'Friendship and Love,' 'Love's Deserted Palace' — these, to mention no others, 
have the 'high seriousness' which Matthew Arnold made the test of true poetry." — 

" Mrs. Chandler Moulton's biography is a beautiful piece of writing, and her 
estimate of his work — a high estimate — is also a just one." — Blmk and IVhite. 

MASON {A. E. W.). 

Cross Purposes: a Tale. [Shortly. 


Selected and Edited by Mrs. William Sharp. 

[/« preparation. 

Portrait as Beatrice Cenci. With Critical Notice 
containing Four Letters from Robert Browning. 
8vo. 2s. net. 


Poor People's Christmas. Printed at the Aylesbury 
Press. 250 copies. i6mo. 15. net. 

[ Very few remain. 

" Displays the author at his best Mr. Noel always has something 

to say woith saying, and his technique— though like Browning, he is too intent upon 
idea to bestow all due care upon form — is generally sufficient and sometimes 
masterly. We hear too seldom from a poet of such deep and kindly sympathy." — 
Sunday Times. 


Poems. \_In preparation. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 15 


Galeazzo : a Venetian Episode, and other Poems. With 
an Etched Frontispiece. 161110. 55. net. 

[ Very few remain. 
Transferred by the Author to the present Publisher. 

" This little book has individuality, the mark of a true poet, of a finely-gifted 
nature "—MR. JOHN ADDINGTON SVMONDS, in the Academy. 

"It is but a pamphlet stitched in a white cover. Moreover, the book is almost 
wholly concerned with Venice. This seems poor matter for poems ; and yet there is 
great charm and skill in Mr. Pinkerton s landscapes in rhyme. They are the most 
pleasant metrical impressions from nature one has seen for a long time." — MR, 
ANDREW LANG, in Longman's Magazine. 

See Corbin. 


Pansies : A Book of Poems. With a title design by 
Minnie Mathews. Fcap. 8vo. 3*. 6a. net. 

" Dt mon jardin, voyageur, 
Vous me demanded une fleur? 
Cueiilex toujour; —mats je n'ai, 
Voyageur, que des pensees." 

" Miss Probyn's earlier volumes 'Poems,' and 'A Ballad of the Road,' were 
published in 1881 and 1883. They attracted considerable attention, but have been 
long out of print. Miss Probyn did not follow them up with other volumes, a<id 
except in magazines and authologie6, she has been silent for the last ten years. In 
a review of ' Poems ' the Saturday Review said it displayed "much brightness of 
fancy, united with excellent metrical science;" and The Scotsman pronounced it to be 
"full of dainty charm, tender pathos, and true poetic quality." Miss Probyn is a 
convert to Catholicism, and her new book will contain some fervent religious poetry, 
often tinged with mediaeval mannerism. Her carols might have been written by 
some very devout and simple monk of the middle ages. 


Contributions by E. Dowson, E. J. Ellis, G A. Greene, 
A. Hillier, Lionel Johnson, Richard le Gal- 
lienne, Victor Plarr, E. Radford, E. Rhys, 
T. W. Rollestone, Arthur Symons, J. Tod- 
hunter, W. B. Yeats. Printed by Miller & Son. 
500 copies (of which 400 are for sale). i6mo. $s. ne ^> 
50 copies on hand-made L.P. 105. 6d. net. 

"The work of twelve very competent verse writers, many of them not unknown 
to fame. This form of publication is not a new departure exactly, but it is a recur- 
rence to the excellent fashion of the Elizabethan age, when 'England's Helicon,' 

1 6 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 


Davison's ' Poetical Rhapsody,' and 'Phcenix Nest,' with scores of other collections, 
contained the best sones of the best song-writers of that tuneful epoch." — Black and 

"The future of these thirteen writers, who have thus banded themselves 
together, will be witehed with interest. Already there is fulfilment in their work, 
and there is much promise." Speaker. 

"In the intervals of Welsh rarebit and stout provided for them at the 'Cheshire 
Cheese,' in Fleet htreet, the members of the Rhymers' Club have produced some very 
pretty poems, which Mr. Elkin Mathews has issued in his notoriously dainty 
manner. "—Pall Mall Gazette. 


Occasional Portraits. With comments on the Per- 
sonages by various writers. [In preparation. 


Literature and Poetry : Papers on Dante, Latin 
Hymns, &c. Portrait and Plates. 100 copies only. 
8vo. I or. net. [ Very few remain. 

SCULL (W. D.\ 

The Garden of the Matchboxes, and other Stories. 
Crown 8vo. 3^. 6 J. net. [In preparation. 


A Book of Thoughts. [In preparation. 

[Isham Facsimile Reprint]. 

A Fovrefovld Meditation, of the foure last 
things. Composed in a Diuine Poeme. By R S. 
The author of S. Peter's complaint. London, 1606. 
A Facsimile Reprint, with a Bibliographical Note by 
Charles Edmonds. 150 copies. Printed on hand- 
made paper at the Chiswick Press. Roy. i6mo. 
$s. net. 

Also 50 copies, large paper. Js. 6d. net. 

Facsimile reprint from the unique fragment discovered in the autumn of 1867 D Y 
Mr. Charles Edmonds in a disused lumber room at Lamport Hall. Northants, and 
lately purchased by the British Museum authorities. This fragment supplies the first 
sheet of a previously unknown poem by Robert Southwell, the Roman Catholic poet, 
whose religious Rrvour lend-- a pathetic beauty to everything thai he wrote and 
future editors of Southwell's works will find it necessary to give it close study. The 
whole of the Poem has been completed from two MS. copies, which differ in the 
number of Stanzas. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 17 


In the Key of Blue, and other Prose Essays, 
With cover designed by C. S. Ricketts. Printed at 
the Ballantyne Press. Second Edition. Thick 
cr. 8vo. 8.f. 6d. net. 

"The variety of Mr. Symonds' interests ! Here are criticisms upon the Venetian 
Tiepolo, upon M. Zola, upon Mediasval Norman Songs, upon Elizabethan lyrics, 
upon Plato's an i Dante s ideals of love; and not a sign anywhere, except may be in 
the last, that he has more concern for, or knowledge of, one theme than another. 
Add to these artistic themes the delighted records of English or Italian scenes, with 
their rich beauties of nature or of art, and the human passions that inform them. 
How joyous a sense of g'eat possessions won at no man's hurt or loss must such a 
man retain." — Daily Chronicle. 

"Some of the essays are very charming, in Mr. Symonds best style, but the 
first one, that which gives its name to the volume, is at least the most curious of the 
lot.' — Speaker. 

"The other essays are the work of a sound and sensible critic." — National 

"The literary essays are more restrained, and the prepared student will find them 
full of illuminaion and charm, while the descriptive papers have the attractiveness 
■which Mr, Symonds alwavs gives to work in this genre." — MR. JAS. ASHCROFT 
NuBLE, in 'I he Literary florid. 


See Hallam, — Van Dyke. 


A Sicilian Idyll. With a Frontispiece by Walter 
Crane. Printed at theCHiswiCK Press. 250 copies. 
Imp. l6mo. 50 copies hand-made L, P. Pcap, 
4to. 10s. 6d. net. [ Very fnv remain. 

" He combines his notes skilfully, and puts his own voice, so to speak, into 
them, and the music that results is sweet and of a pastoral tunefulness." — speaker. 

" The blank verse is the true verse of pastoral, quiet and scholarly, with frequeut 
touches of beauty. The echoes of Theocritus and of the classics at large are modest 
and felicitous.'' — Anti-Jaubin. 

" A charming httle pastoral play in one act. The verse is singularly graceful, 
and many bright gems of wit sparkle in the dialogues."— Literary IVarld. 

" Well worthy of admiration for its grace and delicate finish, its clearness, and 
its compactness." — Athenazum. 

Also the following works by the same Author transferred 
to the present Publisher, viz. : — Laurella, and other 
Poems, 5-f. net. — Alcestis, a Dramatic Poem, 4^. net. 
— A Study of Shelley, 5j. 6d. net. — Forest Songs, 
and other Poems, y. net. — The Banshee, 3s. net. — 
Helena in Troas, 2s. td. net. 

1 8 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 

See Hinkson. 


The Poetry of Tennyson. Third Edition, enlarged. 
Cr. 8vo. 55. 6d. net. 

The additions consist of a Portrait, two Chapters, and the 
Bibliography expanded. The Laureate himself gave valuable 
aid in correcting various details. 

"Mr. Elkin Mathews publishes a new edition, revised and enlarged, of that 
excellent wo>k, 'The Poetry of Tennyson,' by Henry Van Dyke. The adlitions 
are considerable It is extremeiy interesting to go over the bibliographical notes 
to see the contemptuous or, at best, contemptuously patronising tune of the reviewers 
in the early thirties gradually turning to civility, to a loud chorus of applause." — 

" Considered as an aid to the study of the Laureate, this labour of love merits 
warm commendation. Its grouping of the poems, its bibliography and chronology, 
its catalogue of Biblical allusion and quotations, are each and all substantial accessories 
to the knowledge of the autnor." — DR. RICHARD GARNETT, in the Illustrated 
London News. 


The Unconscious Humourist, and other Essays. 

[In preparation. 

\_Mr. Wedmore's Short Stories. New and Uniform Issue. 

Crown &vo. , each Volu?ne 35. 6d. netf\ 


Pastorals of France. Fourth Edition. Crown Svo. 
35. 6d. net. [tieady. 

" A writer in whom delicacy of literary touch is united with an almost disem- 
bodied fineness of sentiment." — Athenaum. 

" Of singular quaintness and beauty." — Contemporary Review. 

"The stories are exquisitely told." — The World. 

" Delicious idylls, written with Mr. Wedmore's fascinating command of 
sympathetic incident, and with his characteristic charm of style." — Illustrated London 

"The publication of the 'Pastorals' may be said to have revealed, not only anew 
talent, but a new literary genre. . . The charm of the writing neve: fails." — Bookman 

" In their simplicity, their tenderness, their quietude, their truthfulness to the 
remote life that they depict, ' Pastorals of France ' are almost perfect." — Sfectatw. 

Vigo Street, London, W. 19 

WEDMORE {FREDERICK)— continued. 

Renunciations. Third Edition. With a Portrait by 
J. J. Shannon. Cr. 8vo. y. 6d. net. [Heady. 

" These are clever studies in polite realism. ' — Athtntzum. 

" Thev arc quite unusual. The picture of Richard Pelse, with his one moment 
of romance, is exquisite." — Sr. James s Gixette. 

" 'The in the Suburbs,' in ' Renunciations,' is a pure joy. . . . The 
story of Richard I'else s life i» told with a power not unworthy of the now disabled 
hand that drew for us the lonely old age of M. Parent." — Mr. Traill, in The 
New Review. 

"The book belongs to the highest order of imaginative work. ' Renunciations ' 
are studies from the life — pictures which make plain to us some of the innermost 
workings uf the heart." — Academy. 

''Mr. Wedmore has gained for himself an enviable reputation. His style has 
distinction, has form. He has the poet's secret how to bring out the beauty of 
common things. . . ' The Chemist in the Suburbs,' in ' Renunciations,' is hi3 
masterpiece." — Saturday Review. 

" We congratulate Mr. Wedmore on his vivid, wholesome, and artistic work, so 
full of suppressed feeling and of quiet strength." — Standard. 

English Episodes. Second Edition. Cr. 8vo. 3$. 6d. 
net. {Ready. 

" Distinction is the characteristic of Mr. Wedmore s manner. These things 
remain on the mind as things seen ; not read of." — Daily Nexus. 

" A penetrating insight, a fine pathos. Mr. Wedmoie is a peculiarly fine and 
sane and carefully deliberate artist." — Westminster Gaxetie. 

"In 'English Episodes' we have another proof of Mr Wedmore's unique 
position among the writers of fiction of the day. We hardly think of his short 
volumes as 'stories,' but rather as life-secrets and hearts' blood, crystalised somehow, 
and, in their je^el-fotm, cut with exceeding skill by the hand of a master-workman.' 
The faultless episode of the 'Vicar of Pimlico 1 is the best in loftiness of 
purpose and keeness of interest ; but the ' Fitting Obsequies is its equal on different 
lines, and deserves to be a classic.'' — World. 

'" English Episodes are worthy successors of 'Pastorals' and 'Renunciations,' 
and with them should represent a permanent addition to Literature." — Academy. 

There may also be had the Collected Edition ( iSgj) of " Pastorals 
of France" and "Renunciations," with Title-page by 
John Fidleylove, R.I. 55. net. 

W1CKSTEED (P. H., Warden of University Halt). 

Dante : Six Sermons. 

%* A Fourth Edition. (Unaltered Reprint). Cr. 8vo. 
2s. net. 

" It is impossible not to be struck wtth the reality and earnestness with which 
Mr. Wicksteed seeks to do justice to what are the supreme elements of the Commedia, 
its spiritual significance, and the depth and insight of its moral teaching." — Guardian. 

20 The Publications of Elkin Mathews 


Whisper ! A Volume of Verse. Fcap. 8vo. buckram. 
25. 6d. net. 
Transferred by the Atilhorto the present Publisher. 

" A little volume of singularly sweet and graceful poems, hardly one of which 
ean be read by any lover of poetry without definite pleasure, and everyone who reads 
either of them without is, we venture to say, unable to appreciate that play of light 
and shadow on the heart of man which is of the very essence of poetry." Spectator. 

"Th> book includes, to my humble taste, many very charming pieces, musical, 
simple, straightforward and not 'as sad as night.' It is long since I have read a more 
agreeable volume of verse, successful up to the measure of its aims and ambitions." — 
M*. ANDREW LANG, in Longman s Magazine. 

TEATS (W. B.). 

The Shadowy Waters. A Poetic Play. [In preparation. 

The Wind among the Reeds (Poems), [fn preparation. 

Mr. Elkin Mathews holds likewise the only copies of the 
following Books printed at the Private Pres? of the Rev. 
C. Henry Daniel, Fellow of Worcester College, Oxford. 


The Growth of Love. Printed in Fell's old English 
type, on Whatman paper, ieo copies. Fcap. 4to. 
£2. 1 is. 6d. net. [ Very fnv remain. 

Shorter Pokms. Printed in Fell's old English type, on 
Whatman paper. 100 copies. Five Parts Fcap. 4to. 
£2. I2.r. 6d, net. [Very few remain. 

Small 8vo. (1882), £1. 155. net. 

Sq. i6mo. 100 copies only. 12s. 6d. net. 

Sq. l6mo. 105. 6d. net. 









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